Unperceived DepthsThere is a bright and shining hope. The water shimmers and engulfs the view as glossy red metal subs plunge into the green depths. The mossy things under the waves, shrieking horrors despite the silence of the crushing darkness. Insanity lays siege to the lights. Duty calls every man to sit as the world slips away.
The surface will not miss them but they will long for the time they can leave the pressurized chambers. They feel it behind the walls. The crew know it is there even if they don’t look. If they study their screens hard enough, read every syllable of their books, dot every “i” on their formal paperwork; They still know the insanity that lurks just outside. They see it through their closed eyes. The insanity waits outside peering through the hull with their gouged sockets. The feel the men. They taste their fear and bite away at their control.
The things outside are little more than ghosts and much more. Few have hands left. What fingers were left were sacrif
The day, the nightThe day, the night, the standing light in the standing time between the day and the rhyme. No one suspects the ever living, ticking betraying stance of themselves. No one counters their own rebellions as the wage on in the soul and the sound of the hallowed ground. there aren't as many police as they think. the safety they imagine is just that because no one can save us from ourselves. Where the cattle and goats feed of the land, we consume our souls. We forsake what we hold dear because nothing else quite feels like it is worth the time to defile. there is an epidemic in my mind that reeks the whole mind and seeks to destroy the images of a boy and taint the stance of a man.
The girls with their pearls all rolling in the light shimmer in the glimmer of destruction’s light. Those that detect and collect respect that there are no boundaries for where the dollar has power.
Lies stack up and we experience truth through fictions. The only truth is true with the imagination. Relevant
Over IndulgentThere was a time for us. I haven't written about you in a while. There was a time when I wrote about you every day. I missed you. Now, I just want someone to hug. You don't hug me. You haven't hugged me in a long time.
There was a time when you hated people. You hated them for me and for my honor. You said that they disrespected me and you didn't like them for it. I was proud and happy and content with you and you alone. I was happy to have someone so devoted to me. Someone to ring my cause before I knew I had one.
I still have people that ring my cause. People that stand up for me and hate on my behalf. It is different now because they hate you. They hate you for what you did to me. For what you said. For the year of grieving that you did not deserve. They hate you and you will never be welcomed back to my cause. I vetoed your exile. I tried to leave the door open for your return. They came back with a super majority. The override came swiftly. You don't want back and they don't want
Just because it is a cycle, doesn't mean it is allThe idea of quitting is nothing new. You let the words bounce around your head and then you let them spew. In private, alone. In the alley behind your home. you drain your throat of everything in your head and hope it leave you alone. but it breaks down into the soil and gets swept back up into the drains. and washing out into the oceans where liquid has few names. Until it is hoisted up into the sky and fluffs out into clouds that methodically pass you by. The ideas went back inside you and come down as rain but you stay indoors dry and insane.
The HikerThe snow fell in sweet silence on the serien meadow. The thin trees stood inches apart from each other filling the expanse. There is blood pooling in my sock. I don't know what to do with it. The others knew first aid. They were headed nowhere, though. This is the right direction. I know it. These surroundings are completely new. I am bound to hit land soon. I can take care of my foot then.
Oh. Apparently my shoe has soaked through. There are red footprints leading up to me. Life is funny sometimes. It is kind of hard to breath. I think I will sit down, take some nice deep breaths.
that is funny. My tan seems to be gone. I guess this will just let me get tanner. The guys at the office will be impressed. The office seems like a completely different reality from this place. Everything is calm. Nothing cares for what time it is. Things happen and succeed without demanding everyone's attention. Why do I feel like everything is looking at me?
I kind of get the appeal of nature, t
Our Dead SelvesTo all of our dead selves. they lie there. damaged, dismembered, dead. Every lifeless husk in various stages of rot and or preservation. The glassed over charred one, still hanging off the chimney. I don't even remember which of the husks was me. They don't stab. It is oddly suspicious but I stopped asking questions long ago. We ran out of bullets after a few months. The early corpses are further away. Back then we were disturbed by the contradiction of our dead selves being burried by our living bodies. We use to go so far out that we lost a few bodies. Hell, we lost a lot of bodies.
We use to bury ourselves, too. Use to call ourselves "them" and "it." We use to fight about what exactly the corpses should be called. We agreed to disagree a few times but that didn't last. We would try to trek out to our graveyard in silence but we would get to talking and directing and then the shovels would be dropped as we both pulled swords. The swords lasted longer than the ammunition but those sho
Sitting Quietly in Pale WhiteSitting quietly in a pale white breakroom. You can tell a break room because it looks desperately and thoroughly used for fifteen minute increments several times a day and lacks any real distinction of style outside of borrowed furniture, lockers of questionable safety, and vending machines. It makes an obscene amount of sense that one soda company would be contracted to sell in the store but another would own the machine in the breakroom. The steadiest most desperate patrons would be employees. The illusion of choice in lieu of laziness. It is always easier and cheaper to bring refreshments but that is if planning was easy.
He sits there in the breakroom holding a red leather journal. Fountain pen floating centimeters over the page with the constant threat of leaving ink in strategic places that convey meaning to discerning onlookers. He stares at the pop machine and thinks about the illusion of choice and the its threat to free will. The clock is broken and the second hand twitches u
Heart Pounding my Brain
Today is the day. I cannot think about it, too long. Otherwise, I get sick to my stomach. I am going to ask out the obscenely cute girl, from work. Ambiguously single with at several male friends but she is proprietary single, none the less. I'm still unsure, though.
I have come up with a plan. I will get her attention.I won't bring up any other bullshit to talk about, straight to the point. I will ask if she is seeing anyone and I will request that we go out sometime. When do I take her out?
She has told me she is busy. Quite the busy girl, all the time. I am available late or early, whenever. I don't know when we both will be available. I could take her out at work. No, that would be unpleasant, embarrassing, and not at all romantic. Should I really be planing dates right now? That would look weird, right? If I go from being unaware of her relationship status to throwing times and places at her. I can only see that ending in dodge ball, I want to avoid that metaphor.
So, setting up a
The Beautiful ClownsThere is another one. Tall blond, shutter-shade sunglasses, pink novelty tee, and jeans that show me too much ass. We are trying to march down this boulevard to make a scene. Me and my gang, we aren't funny and are not here to chase tail, even if we did find it mildly attractive. Pocka-dots and an ironic sense of humor. When the clowns roll walk into where you live, you will find that you were on our turf all along.
This was a long time coming. We should have just taken what was ours. We had a girl selling on a street corner. Snow, not ass, we don't sell ass. We give stupid people stuff that keeps them stupid and there is no woman who deserves to be some banker's sweet escape. I find that women fight just as well as men, if they are treated like they can. Mother's fight better, pain tolerance and a constant angry stare.
Take Bridge, she was fourteen when we found her. Skinny as wire on a fence and high on crack. I don't give wasts of girls like that a second look but not Bridge. Even o
Itty Bitty Creepy CrawliesItty bitty creepy crawlies,
creeping along the ground.
See them, no,
feel them, yes,
as they creep around on eight toes.
Itty bitty creepy crawlies,
creeping along the ground.
Watch them climb,
watch them fly,
along their silken threads.
Itty bitty creepy crawlies,
creeping along the ground.
Watch them feed,
with a desperate need,
inside their silken homes.
Itty bitty creepy crawlies,
creeping along the ground,
They come to say hello,
up your arm, down your spine,
then they say, good day.
staring at a pearl on velvet,
softly cradled over
the burnt-sienna maples,
the moon lies tilted sideways
unaware of the girl
contemplating craters and whether or not
they look like a woman's face
or a child idly dancing
on ground that remembers all footprints.
SunrayI will walk the morning sun
to the edge of the very last ray
let it fill me breath to lung
I will shine away
BlanketThey all shine so bright
Trillions of colours
One for each mile
That separates us.
The fabrics of space
Woven so loosely
Enough for our lives
To slide through the creases
Yes, we see the
Births of stars
The deaths of stars,
It's all a wide blanket
Warming us in the cold abyss
Easing the loneliness
Of an empty universe.
Autumn IsWet asphalt, and rain-soaked leaf-mulch tea
Summer’s wastrel profligacy
Washed down gutters and urban-henged streams
To a sucking sea that mutters and dreams.
Cold air flavored with woodsmoke
Ghosts the twilit mist invokes
Silent and numb, but loathe to go in
To steaming kitchens and family din.
Melancholy and solitude
And hidden places in which to brood
Rot, decay and introspection
Delirium, death and dark reflection.
Painting the SkyMother Nature:
Effortless in her grace,
Flawless in her beauty,
The world a canvas,
With her palate of infinite color,
Any method or tool at her disposal.
She is the master of pieces,
The composer of ancient lyric,
The writer of every story,
The artisan of all trades.
She paints the heavens at dawn
With hues of violet, orange and rose,
And strains the clouds on the horizon.
The rising sun’s light reflecting off their surfaces,
Cascading vibrance onto the weary eyes
Of those in slumber, and those awoken long before.
She calls the birds to sing the melodies
Known to them by heart,
And as they face the new morning,
They bravely sing the intricate verse,
A language all their own,
But one that all are blessed to hear.
She takes her brush and streaks it across the clouds,
And carefully flicking the moisture down to earth
She adorns all things with the finest crystalline water,
Dew covering the grasses,
The weaving of spiders,
The flowers untouched by crude hands.
She gently blows a sin
autumn veinscan't you take your eyes away
from the bright blooms in
look out the window;
you can see the tan winds,
the cyclone of cyclical
fallen leaves, loves,
struggles of wildflower
thorns to be seen,
and see a child.
there are dying weeds
in her white headband
and whispered poems
in her bruised feet.
remember when you had to choose
between the summer breeze and
this is is that moment.
((you made the right choice.))
ForgottenBlot the fetid spews of Autumn
Every blossom once soft; Now rotten
Vegetation once lush; Now sodden
Swallowed by earth; A promise solemn
All those fallen will birth new pollen
Each lives on; be naught forgotten..
SuprasolarWe call it the Local Group,
this, our neighborhood of galaxies,
in which only a single star
is even remotely reachable.
And we tell ourselves
to dream big.
That hard work
will get us there.
But on the cosmic scale
our collective capacity
For every star in the Milky Way,
all four hundred billion or more,
there is a galaxy.
Even the Local Group
Yet since dreams are orbital
we hold our breath to reach them.
And when we perish in the vacuum
the stars still burn
everything that matters.
Snow FallThe perfect snow drifts perilously to the earth. It twirls in the wind. Twisting in the air as the heat pushes past. the wind is always pouring from among high in an effort to find balance. The only result is turbulence. Breath of desperate pleas beat flakes and trees alike as the fall continues. Landing is most dreadful. There is no control for the frozen patterns. No means of reason to attempt to succeed. Cars blaring horns blaze on the ground. It gets close and the wind meets it and bends to the curvature of the hood. Flakes are tossed on a wave of movement. Unseeing and caring. Some lose their majestic form as they lie in puddles. They land softly, always softly. A perk of design and kindness. It hovers for a moment. The tension passes as the blanket of comfort fades away. Laying in water, dirt is pulled up over the crystals. It is warm now. Strange. It dissipates as a teardrop and mixes with that which fell before. Next time, a field perhaps.